


titles suck; here's a duck

by Anonymous_Wraith



Series: mcyt [2]
Category: Among Us (Video Game), Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Good dad vibes, Happy Toby Smith | Tubbo, It just happened, Jordan Maron is a dad, Protective Jordan Maron, Toby Smith | Tubbo Deserves Better, Toby Smith | Tubbo Has PTSD, Toby Smith | Tubbo Needs a Hug, Toby Smith | Tubbo is Not Okay, cryptid tubbo, is it kidnapping if the child is a cryptid, jordan just picks up a child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:46:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29614485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_Wraith/pseuds/Anonymous_Wraith
Summary: tubbo is a little cryptid choildjordan is a Concerned Adult™there’s really only one outcome to this combination(aka jardon unwittingly steals a duckling from a park)
Relationships: Jordan Maron & Toby Smith | Tubbo
Series: mcyt [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2175873
Comments: 16
Kudos: 114





	titles suck; here's a duck

**Author's Note:**

> for those of you coming from my technoblade fic: welcome back  
> for those of you who are just here because you like tubbo and sparkleys dynamics: well, hello there, how do ya do?  
> for those of you who have no idea why you’re here: uhhhhhhhhh hi? 
> 
> context: this is directly after the vaccines get out and corona is fixed because i dont want to deal with a global pandemic lol. also, the cryptid-childness is going to be vague and implied-- this fic is mostly for found family fluffs
> 
> welp, onwards to the fic ig

Here’s the thing: Jordan rarely ever goes outside.

It’s 2021, COVID-19 has barely started to settle down, and --most importantly-- he’s a youtuber, which basically means he has next to no social life outside of his computer screen. When he does go outside, he has a purpose-- and one that can’t be solved by quick delivery or asking one of his rare real-life friends. It has to be necessary for him to leave the comfort and safety of his room. It has to be something that’s important. 

Today, he has no reason for walking out of his apartment except for a small, incessant tugging inside his chest. 

It’s a strange feeling, one akin to when you leave something on the stovetop, or when you hear a child crying in the room next over, or when you take a sniff of the air and it smells of smoke. It’s a feeling of danger, of urgency.

He stalks out of his house with no knowledge of where he’s going, only with that dangerous feeling dragging him along. 

The snow crunches under his boot-clad feet. His pajama pants (who the heck wears real clothes anymore?) are tucked into the hems of his shoes, and his loose white shirt is bundled up beneath his fluffy winter coat. He’d only managed to hastily put his coat and boots on before the danger-filled urge pulled him straight out the door and into the cold. 

He’s halfway down his block, oddly calm and unconcerned. Maybe he’s too desensitized to weird situations from his years in the youtube community-- but still, he should be panicking right now, or at least wondering what’s happening. He’s not, though. He feels almost like he planned this ahead of time, and that he’s just taking a late-morning stroll; nothing to be concerned about, not at all. Except: he knows he didn’t plan this, and underneath all the calm is the slightest hint of unease.

As suddenly as it started, the tugging stops. 

He stands in the snow-covered City Park, vaguely bewildered and --strangely-- unwilling to go back to his apartment just yet. The tugging may have stopped, but the _purpose_ that came with it remains. 

He’s in gamer-mode, analyzing the area and figuring out what to do next. 

The park is occupied by about twenty people, scattered around it in small groups. The majority are kids that came to play in the snow, and the others are parents or dog owners that are just along for the ride. There is nothing amiss or different from the usual, which only serves to put him further on edge. 

The feeling was probably nothing, he decides hesitantly, turning back down the road he had trod to get here. There is nothing he needs to do, no danger he needs to remedy. It’s better to head home, to maybe work on a video, or maybe take a nap. Yeah, a nap sounds nice.

He sees something out of the corner of his eye as he walks away. A flash of brown and yellow that contrasts from the white of the snow and the grey of the sludge-covered road. 

When he turns his head to look, he sees a teenager, clothed in a simple, dust-yellow hoodie and dark yellow sweats. His wide brown eyes peek out from under his milk chocolate hair, his fingers fidgeting nervously in front of him. All in all, he looks to be about fifteen to seventeen-- but there’s something older in his stance, in his hollowed cheeks, and in the way he tilts his head. Something predatory and intelligent and animalistic.

When Jordan blinks, he sees the afterimage of a crown on the teen’s head, but it disappears as soon as his eyes open. 

Of course, he dismisses it as a trick of the imagination.

Their staring contest is broken by the kid’s wide smile and his bouncy approach towards him. His hoodie sleeves flop over his hands like little wings, while his walking hops serve to complete the whole duckling look, waddling towards Jordan childishly. 

“What’s up, kiddo?” Jordan asks, the _purpose_ ringing inside him as the kid gets closer. 

The teen hums, that same hopeful smile fixed on his face. “Nothing much,” he chirps, but in the next moment he shivers.

Jordan is immediately concerned. “Are you cold? Do you need anything?” He furrows his brow. “Are you okay?”

The kid shivers again, and Jordan thinks, that’s it. 

He takes off his jacket and throws it around the ducking’s shoulders, snuggly wrapping him up. The boy complies with Jordan’s mother henning, his smile becoming softer and his head tilting up to better watch the man. 

His happy hum melts Jordan’s heart. 

“What do you think of hot chocolate?”

.

That’s how he finds himself sitting in a coffee shop with the duckling across from him, who is drinking hot chocolate and humming along to an eerie tune. It kinda reminds Jordan of the buzzing of a bee, quiet and high-pitched with only a hint of melody. 

So he’s a bee _and_ a duckling, Jordan muses amusedly as he sips his own hot chocolate. The drink is perfect. Not too bitter, not too sweet. He should buy some at the store before he gets home, so that he can have some before bed at night. Maybe it will help him sleep. 

“So, kid,” he starts, leaning his elbows on the table between them. “I’m Jordan. What’s your name?”

The teen stares and tilts his head, a shy smile gracing his lips. 

“Don’t talk much, do you?”

He shrugs, humming again. He tilts his head in the way that puppies do when they’re listening. It’s cute, and endearing, and Jordan wonders when the hell he got so soft. (a/n: the answer is: from birth)

“That’s okay,” Jordan says. “It’s your choice whether you talk or not. I can talk enough for the both of us.” He shoots him a self-deprecating smile. “If you don’t mind me talking about myself, that is.”

“Of course not, Captain,” the boy says, sounding almost affronted. A british accent bleeds pleasantly into his voice, making his tone less harsh and more… bubbly.

Jordan laughs. “You know about my youtube channel, huh?” He drinks from his hot chocolate. “Yet you still want to hear me talk about myself. Ahhh, the irony. You know, that reminds me of a story…”

The cryptid boy listens with a smile as the ever-so-lonely man unravels mysteries with his tongue, and the boy thinks:

_This one’s mine._

.

Jordan doesn’t know why he isn’t bothered when the kid follows him to his house. All he knows is that letting the boy out of his sight would spark a paranoid sense of anxiety, and that he would probably die before he told this little duckling to go away. Some deeper part of him knows, also, somehow, that his duckling has no parents to call his own. 

Unacceptable. 

The duckling stops at the doorstep, bouncing in anticipation and expectancy. He says, “Can I come in, Captain?”

“Of course, make yourself at home.”

.

Jordan learns quickly that the kid doesn’t like loud noises, or being surprised. 

The evening goes normal enough, at first. Jordan bustles about his business, boiling some water for tea, putting a pot on the stove for some simple mac and cheese. The duckling watches him with star-riddled eyes, relaxing against a countertop with his hoodie strings loosely held in his slender hands. His eyelids are half-closed and his bangs hang low over his brows. 

Jordan takes a moment to watch him back, offering a soft smile as he goes to grab a utensil to stir the boiling pasta. Something inside him is slotted into place when the duckling’s in his sight. Something paternal is fulfilled with him in his house, a relief that he never knew he needed.

 _This_ one’s mine, something in him whispers.

It is then that the silence is broken by the sound of car horns blaring outside. Jordan is briefly startled, but that is instantly forgotten as he sees his duckling’s reaction to the sound.

The teen jerks back like he’s been shot, curling in on himself with a gargled whine. He digs his hands around his ears to block out the thunderous car horns. His face twisting in pain and fear, the once-soft hum in his throat becomes a symphony of jarring notes, quiet and distressed in a way that tears at Jordan’s heart. 

The man rushes to his duckling’s side, shushing soothingly and hovering his hands near his shoulders. “Hey, hey,” he placates. “It’s alright. It’s just a car. Nothing is coming to hurt you.” He continues these platitudes without pause for breath. Crouching next to him, he slowly rests his fingers against his duckling’s quivering hands and rubs his thumbs softly over them. “I’m here; there’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m here, I’m here.”

The blaring stops, but it takes five more minutes to calm the duckling down. By that time, Jordan has him nestled up to his chest, the boy’s chin digging into his collarbone. Duckling’s fingernails are hooked into the back of the man’s shirt, his ear pressed firmly to Jordan’s pulse, and his knees tucked between them. He has no intention of moving, and neither does the man holding him. 

However, the pasta needs tending to, so Jordan shifts the teen so he’s balanced on one hip, standing up gingerly and maneuvering them next to the stove. He stirs the pasta in silence, every now and then putting the spoon down to card his fingers through the clinging boy’s hair. He leans into the touch with an exhausted hum and clings tighter. 

The pasta is done - if a bit clumped - and the cheese powder is added as well as some butter and milk. Jordan does this all one-handed, of course, and the duckling tilts his head so he can inspect the strange yellow carbs presented before him. 

“Do you feel like eating?” the youtuber asks quietly, pulling out two bowls from the cupboard.

He hums contemplatively and nuzzles Jordan’s neck. He nods.

Jordan melts. “Just remember not to force yourself,” he says, before he pours a healthy amount into each bowl and transports them to the living room. 

They sit, snuggled comfortably on the couch, and eat.

.

When it’s time for bed, Jordan gives the teen a pair of his own pajamas, which (to his embarrassment) fit near-perfectly. A centimeter shorter and the pants wouldn’t fit the teen, actually. 

Then, Jordan goes to change.

When he comes back, the kid is laying on the floor with his eyes closed, as if he is just going to sleep there and doesn’t expect to get a bed for himself. Which is _not_ going to happen. Not on Jordan’s watch, that is.

Jordan crouches down next to his duckling and says, “C’mon, kid. Let’s get you to bed.”

“I’m good here, Captain.” He doesn’t even open his eyes, waving a hand dismissively.

“No, you’re not. If you’re going to stay here for a while, I want you sleeping on an actual bed,” Jordan says. In both of their minds, there is no question that the duckling is staying. This has always been meant to be, and there is no argument on that front.

He sits up, looking up nervously at Jordan. “I don’t want to be a burden. I’m fine sleeping on the floor.”

The man gently cups the boy’s cheeks to catch his attention. He smiles. 

“You will never be a burden.”

.

“You can call me Tubbo, I think,” the duckling says a week into his stay, a contemplative look on his face. “Yep, I like the sound of that. Tubbo!”

Jordan perks up, thoughts churning with happiness and disappointment both. On the one hand, the kid gave himself a name. On the other hand-- shouldn’t the kid trust him enough to tell him his birth name? 

He pushes the disappointment to the back of his mind and beams at Tubbo, his kid, his duckling. “That’s a great name! I love it! Tubbo,” he says, savouring it on his tongue. “Tubster. Little Tub. Tubboat. So many possibilities.” He laughs and pokes Tubbo in the stomach, who giggles and pushes his hand away. 

“There definitely is, Captain!” he chirps.

.

One morning, Jordan hears a sound of distress from the living room and he rushes to see what’s the problem. 

Tubbo is standing forlorn over a plate, one of the porcelain ones that actually look decent. Rather, _looked_ decent. Now, it lays in pieces at Tubbo’s feet, it’s once-smooth surface now home to canyons and gullies. 

He’s crying. Sobbing. 

Jordan’s fatherly heart strings are being violently tugged at with the strength of an angry mama bear, so he rushes forward to support the child.

Tubbo flinches back, however, cowering fearfully and sobs growing louder. “I’m sorry!” he mumbles hurriedly. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’msorryI’msorry--”

Jordan envelopes him in a hug, rubbing his hands up and down the kid’s shoulder blades. “It’s okay,” he says firmly. “We have other plates.”

Tubbo simultaneously pushes him away and clings to him tighter. “But I broke something and-- I don’t want to be a burden-- and you should punish me or, or-- I’ll do something to make up for it, I swear, Captain! I--”

“You’re not a burden,” he interjects, heart sinking the more he hears. “You’ll never be a burden. And-- what kind of caretaker would I be if I didn’t let you make mistakes? I don’t care about the plate. What I care about is if _you_ are okay.” He pulls back just enough to look Tubbo in the eyes. “Are you okay?”

The boy - far too young, even if his eyes are ancient - wipes an arm roughly against his tear-streaked face, his other hand still clenched in the back of Jordan’s shirt. “Yes.”

Jordan eyes him with doubt, but let’s the matter go. “You want to watch a movie?”

“Yes!”

(when Tubbo inevitably falls asleep in Jordan’s lap, the man sighs deeply and swears that nothing will ever, _ever_ , hurt **his duckling** again)

.

**A/N : ALRIGHT FOLKS i’ve been sitting on this for far too long so i’mma just post this. i have some other ideas but i literally have no motivation for this fic anymore, unfortunately. if anyone wants to finish it, feel free. just comment and i’ll add you as a co-author. or you can just make a different work idk**

**here’s the rest of my ideas:  
makes him eat his broccoli, bright smiles, nightmares, ‘i'm not going to leave you,’ hugs, plays with hair.**

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: don’t steal children from parks
> 
> i won’t be writing more of this because i am in desperate need of ranboo fanfiction. 
> 
> see y’all in the comment section


End file.
